Instead of ending on a high note, Nelson, it seems, has miscalculated. His final pitch to the jury drops flat like some sinking stone in a mountain lake. I think that he senses this. As he turns, his back to the jury, and makes for the counsel table, Nelson has the look of a man who wishes for one more chance. Unfortunately for our side, he will get it. The prosecution gets two shots at closing argument, an initial summation and then a rebuttal following our own, one of the perks of shouldering the burden of proof.

Nelson takes his seat, and Acosta looks at me.

My plan here has two major aspects, to tear at the soft underbelly of the state’s case so as to put Nelson on the defense, and to give him as little ammunition as possible for his rebuttal.

I move in front of the jury and smile. I speak in a conversational tone, as if I am leaning over the back fence to a neighbor.

“There is an abiding constant in the criminal law,” I tell them. “It is the same from Maine to California, from the Aleutians in Alaska to the Florida Keys. It is one of the few laws in this nation that is universal and unquestioned-the rule that criminal defendants are entitled to the presumption of innocence unless the state can prove their guilt by evidence beyond a reasonable doubt.”

I always start with the basics.

I nod a little, anticipating the question that I know has entered each of their minds.

“Oh yes, you are right. This is a difficult task that our government has imposed upon the various states, particularly in a case such as this one, where the evidence is circumstantial, where there are no witnesses to the crime.

“But,” I say, “this is what the founding fathers intended, that no innocent man or woman should suffer for a wrongful conviction, should be unjustly imprisoned, or worse, executed because of an overzealous prosecutor or a mistake on the part of the state. It is a good system, the best in the world.”

I soothe them lest they feel that Nelson is too much the underdog here. I remind them that he has an army of police officers to investigate for him, an office filled with professional prosecutors, all of the resources of the state, against me and Harry alone. I point to “Mr. Hinds” sitting at the table, lonely next to Talia. “The state, with all of these resources,” I say, “deserves the burden of proof.”

They seem to accept this as a given. I move on to defuse Talia’s silence.

“Mr. Nelson has nibbled around the fringes,” I say. “By innuendo and implication he has questioned what the law does not permit him to ask directly-he has, by subtle suggestion, challenged the silence of Talia Potter in this trial.”

“Your Honor, I did not,” he says. Nelson is on his feet. He knows this is taboo. If even implied in the transcript, it is grounds for an instant mistrial. He cannot allow my assertion to remain unchallenged.

“The record will speak for itself,” says Acosta. “I heard no objection from the defense as Mr. Nelson spoke.”

“How can one object to gestures and inflections, Your Honor?” These do not show up between the lines of black print on the trial transcript, I tell him.

“Get on with it,” he says.

I return my gaze to the jury.

“I will confront this question directly and honestly,” I tell them. “In a few moments the judge will read to you a number of instructions. One of these bears directly on the right of Talia Potter to remain silent throughout this trial. That is her undeniable, God-given right,” I say.

“She has a right to rely on the state of the government’s evidence, or any failure of that evidence. If the state has failed to prove every essential element of the charge against her, under the law Mr. Nelson may not expect her to supply his own deficiencies. This the law does not permit.”

I pick up the jury instruction sheet from the counsel table, one of two that Acosta will read from on this point. “ ‘A defendant in a criminal trial,’ ” I read, “ ‘has a constitutional right not to be compelled to testify. You must not draw any inference from the fact that a defendant does not testify. You must neither discuss this matter, nor permit it to enter into your deliberations in any way’ whatever.” I embellish here, one word at the end.

“This is the law,” I say, “apart from any suggestions or implications that the state may give you, gestures that you think you may have seen.” I turn and look at Nelson. “This is inviolable, a fundamental right which the state may not invade.”

I return to the counsel table and replace the single piece of paper, take a sip of water, and make my way back to the railing.

There are other reasons, I tell them, for my client’s silence. I note that she has in fact answered these charges by pleading not guilty, by mounting a vigorous defense, by producing witnesses who have attested to her innocence. “And there is another reason that she has not taken the stand. She is a proud woman, who for months now has been subjected to the worst trauma the state and society can inflict on any citizen, an accusation of serious crime, an utter and complete invasion of any sense of privacy. I will not subject her to more,” I say. “This I cannot do.” In this way I assume the blame for her silence, take it upon myself, and try to scatter it to the winds.

I pause for a moment and give them a deep sobering look, pull myself up to my full height, and speak.

“I asked you, when we started, a single vexing question, on an issue pivotal to the outcome of this trial. I asked you whether in the presentation of the state’s entire case you had heard or seen any compelling evidence, any evidence whatever, sufficient to convict Talia Potter of the crime with which she stands accused.”

It is now time to call them on this. I give an unflinching look from one end of the panel to the other.

“Ask yourselves, in the silence of your own minds, whether the state has produced a scintilla, even the slightest trace, of compelling evidence that Talia Potter is linked in any way with the death of her husband, Benjamin Potter.”

I look at them in abject silence for a long moment, giving this thought some time to penetrate.

“What has the prosecution demonstrated in nearly three weeks of your time, at untold public expense?” I ask them.

“Mr. Nelson has given you photographs of horrific violence that he would have you believe was perpetrated by my client, Talia Potter. These,” I say, “were designed to make you lash out blindly at anyone charged with this crime. Is this compelling evidence of the guilt of Talia Potter?

“He has provided a single strand of human hair so pristine in its condition that his own experts cannot explain the absence of any scorching while it was lodged in the chamber of a shotgun fired into the victim’s mouth. Is this compelling evidence of the guilt of Talia Potter?”

I touch upon the implausible explanation for this that Nelson has given in his closing, an explanation, I say, that is not borne out by the evidence of his own witnesses. “I did not object to this speculation, though I could have,” I say, “because there is no evidence on the record to support it. I did not object because I knew that you could see with your own eyes, and hear with your own ears, the absence of evidence on this very point.” I smile at them, nodding my head slowly, a demonstration that I trust their judgment, their common sense in such things. I have no doubt gained more here, by this tactic, than by any objection I could have made.

“Mr. Nelson has produced a witness who tells us that the victim was about to divorce Mrs. Potter, a presumed motive for murder. Yet his own witness cannot tell us whether Talia Potter in fact knew of this supposed plan to end her marriage, a motive so secret that the defendant herself was unaware of it. Is this compelling evidence of the guilt of Talia Potter?”

I remind them of Mrs. Foster, who could not identify the victim’s car, who did not see Ben or Talia at the house on the night of the murder, but whose testimony was offered for this very implication.